


Kammerspiel

by gnostic_heretic



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (just slightly at the end), Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dialogue Heavy, Drunken Confessions, Experimental Style, Fluff and Angst, Historical Hetalia, Historical Inaccuracy, Introspection, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Suggestive Themes, Trans Male Characters, Transphobia, of sorts, somewhat heavy themes, theatre play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 21:32:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19118107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnostic_heretic/pseuds/gnostic_heretic
Summary: It’s stronger than me. It hurts, and it heals, all at the same time.





	Kammerspiel

**Author's Note:**

> (This is a very experimental fic- it's a play, a Kammerspiel as the title says but also... not really. It's a dialogue, a perspective, a slice of life in the true sense, but still a fanfiction. I understand that might turn some people off. But if you're even just a little curious, please stay and let curiosity guide you.)

**PROLOGUE.**

 

**The writer** : «Le dame, i  cavallier ,  l'armi , gli amori...» these are the stories that seduce our minds, that fire up our souls. Who hasn’t languidly sighed to ancient poems, yearning for a heroic destiny that will never come true?

To slay a dragon, to be a powerful witch in a covenant with the devil; to find our true love in an enchanted forest, or so the fantasy goes.

 

But what I’m presenting to you today, ladies, gentlemen, and those of us who know best, is not that kind of a story. My muse will not sing of the glory of Achilles, or the pain of Hecuba.

It is nothing but a simple dialogue of sensations, a  _ Kammerspiel  _ that will offer you a short journey, a quick glimpse into the depths of a mind. 

 

And in the best of theatrical traditions, take this **not** as the real countryside of Lesser Poland, within the walls of the home of a powerful, unnamed nobleman; and take this not as the real years of the reign of  Władysław IV, of the house of Vasa, a moment of relative peace for our two characters.

We know that on the stage, history is nothing but a mirror. For us to observe ourselves and the reality around us. To look at the minuscule details in the depths of our eyes, to define the contours of our shape and affirm to ourselves, every morning, _ I am me _ .  

 

If you care to sit, I present you a dialogue between two young men, peculiar in their type: people of skin, blood, and bone like all of us, yet tied to their lands, immortal in their nature. 

Two young men who live at court but who came from humble homes, from humble mothers that died hundreds of years ago, lost in the anonymous crowd of that history of common people that shaped this world without leaving so much of a trace. Most importantly, two young men of uncommon circumstances, with a shared secret that could cost them everything if it were to be revealed.  

 

If you care to listen, maybe you will learn something new: about them, about me, perhaps about you. 

 

* * *

  
**KAMMERSPIEL.**   
  
  


[The scene opens in a fancy, baroque bedroom: paintings on the walls, a desk with carved drawers and a mess of papers on top of it, an old armchair with pink and blue flowers, brocade curtains over the window and the canopy bed with twisted, spiral wood columns. A few candles light the room around the desk, but they’re all consumed. Heavy footsteps resonate in the corridor outside the room, among the cold dark stones of the palace walls.]

 

**[Voice behind the door]** : Can you believe the  _ nerve _ ?

 

[With the force of a tempest, and a loud shriek,  **Feliks, the Crown of the Polish Kingdom,** enters his own room. He’s short as his temper, pink-cheeked and fair, the kind of youth you would find in Arcadia. Tolvydas, or **Tolys, the Grand Duchy of Lithuania,** a lanky and rugged young man follows him suit, his walk more uncertain, tentative. He’s, au contraire, a man you could easily spot on the side of the road as you walk between the wheat fields: he looks uncomfortable in his fancy clothes, and his brown curly hair looks like it hasn’t been brushed in days.]

 

**Feliks** : He  _ dares _ question me! I’m the fatherland that they all seem to love so much, for fuck’s sake! That is, until they see me, and decide that respect is out of the window.

**Tolys** : If he weren’t the princess’ fiancé, I would have punched his face before he had a chance to say that.

 

[Tolys’ voice is calm, but that doesn’t deceive Feliks anymore: he means it. And _God_ , does he wish he could have done exactly that.]

 

**Feliks** : And what kind of question is that, either? [in a mocking voice]  _ Sir, or should I say milady _ , he says, like it’s a fucking joke. I almost dropped dead, like, right there. On the god-damned spot. I almost puked on his ugly fucking shoes.  _ Ugh _ , I need a drink— do we have something?

**Tolys** : I can go to the kitchen and see.

**Feliks** : Please, Liet. I’m literally dying.

**Tolys** : You know you’re not…

**Feliks** : No, but I wish!

 

[ **Tolys** leaves the room, quick and quiet as a mouse. 

Though he did not say much, the silence is heavy as the humid atmosphere.  **Feliks** shudders.]

 

**Feliks** _ : [talking to himself.] Please, come back soon… don’t leave me alone with my ghosts, or their whispers will become too loud. _

 

[He sits on his chair, the one close to the small desk he asked for. He takes a quill pen, he dips it in ink. But all that comes on the paper is a long, shaky, scratchy line; a useless effort, and a waste of good ink, but a good visual representation of the way he feels. 

Pensive, he waits until Lithuania is back— and it can’t be soon enough, really, because the ghosts whisper, they talk, they scream. 

He can still taste the vitriol and see the Duke’s face, his ugly moustache dripping with sour cream that he had not bothered to clean up since dinner.

Stupid engagement feast, stupid dances, stupid marriage deals with a stupid man— he can see the face of the guests, some puzzled, some trying hard to hide their half-laughter. Their eyes on him, their eyes on him, a gaze that won’t leave him alone even now.

The ghosts scream, they howl:  _ should I say milady _ ? Even the sound of it is grotesque. 

 

It’s scary. 

 

The heavy door opens with a loud creak.] 

 

**Tolys** : I brought you mead. 

 

[Tolys’ voice is a welcome relief, a needed dissonant voice in the choir.]

 

**Feliks** : Mead is good, but only with spices.

**Tolys** : You’re lucky that Zuzanna knows you well, ‘cause I’ve got those too.

 

[ **Tolys** pours two glasses, one for each of them.  **Feliks** can tell that he ran all the way up the stairs— his heavy breathe tells him as much, his flushed cheeks— he wishes to hold Tolys close, because his heart must be beating so fast right now. Instead, he watches, still as an old broomstick and embarrassed as a shy maiden. 

Where has his charm gone? Flushed by insecurity, and the ever-present voice of his ghosts. 

_ Should he call me milady? _

The louder it gets, the more grotesque it becomes. His voice, and his hand— Feliks is suddenly aware of his body, unwelcome in his own skin. His face is the face of his mother, a vague memory of blond hair falling on white cloth, the gentle movement of her hands as she works on embroidering a new dress for him to wear.

His clothes, the ones he’s wearing, feel tight like a cage and clear as a glass window: now he can see through, and it’s as if everyone could see through. How can he be embraced, when Tolys knows, when he can see this? 

When everyone could see through…]

 

**Tolys** : Feliks, are you alright? You look so pale.

 

[Tolys’ voice takes him back to reality.]

 

**Feliks** : Yeah, I’m just a little shaken. I’m kind of scared, to be honest.

**Tolys** : Of the Duke?

**Feliks** : No, Liet, I’m scared of everyone. Everyone was looking at me, everyone’s eyes were on— every part of me, and if they were to see too much, hear too much, would I be burned at the stake?

**Tolys** : I don’t think anyone noticed anything off, and even if they did—

**Feliks** : If? That’s not very reassuring, you know?

**Tolys** : Well, if you let me finish. Just because a stranger questioned you, it doesn’t mean anyone is going to find out. You’ve pulled this off for hundreds of years– what’s a man’s word, no matter how influential, against the fact that everyone else has known you as  _ you _ , for generations of kings and queens now?

 

[Feliks swallows half of his cup of mead, spiced with cloves and a pinch of cinnamon.]

 

**Feliks** : It just feels so useless, sometimes, you know.

 

[The cinnamon is scratching at the back of his throat (surely, the itch is the reason why his thoughts stumble, the reason why his voice suddenly sounds broken to his ears), but the warm taste of alcohol makes up for it.]

 

**Feliks** : I get up every morning, I dress as a man, I look at myself in the mirror, I tell myself: I am a man, people know me as a man, and everything is going to be alright.

But a knot in my corset coming undone, a nosy servant barging into my room unannounced, a rip in my garments, a look, a joke from a stranger who knows a little too much, and it would all be over. It would be taken from me so quickly… it would have been safer for me to be–

**Tolys** : To be what?

 

[Tolys’ question cuts deep.

Feliks knows what the answer is– _ to be a woman, it would have been easier for me to be a woman, a woman _ – the word  _ woman  _ echoes in his head over and over, the twisted sweet voice of his mother calling him from the bottom of a cliff. 

The welcoming, storm-shaken sea is calling, the sharp and harsh rocks at the bottom are calling. He has never seen the sea in his life: these are the only waves he knows, and he’s already seasick.]

 

**Feliks** : To not be… not be me. To be anything but this.

 

[It’s not like these words hurt any less– they come with a twist of his stomach– retching, gagging, he spits them and can’t stop.

It would have been easier…]

 

**Feliks** : It would have been easier if I could have let go of this. If I had let Feliks remain a fantasy, a young man in my mind that I could never be. 

But every morning, when I dress as a man, and I look in the mirror, and I see a man… when I speak, and hold my throat, and hear my voice that gets lower, and lower, and I say: my name is Feliks! That’s a song sweeter than any rondeau, you know? I can’t stop. It’s stronger than me. It hurts, and it heals, all at the same time. But…

**Tolys** : But?

**Feliks** : Sometimes, I wonder if it’s worth it.

**Tolys** : The risks?

**Feliks** : The risks. The pain. The attention I have to pay to every word I say and the way I say it and the way people look at me. Living my life with the gut-retching worry that the smallest crack is enough to shatter the mirror. Why am I doing this, at the end of the day?

**Tolys** : Because at the end of the day, it’s worth it, isn’t it? Otherwise you would not be here.

**Feliks** : Well, maybe I would still be here. But I would be living someone else’s life. I would just be reciting a script. I can be a good actor for a few hours, but after that, if I think of what it would feel like to go back– I find that I would rather not be, at all. 

 

[Tolys nods slowly, and pours himself a glass of mead. He notices that Feliks’ glass is empty.]

 

**Tolys** : You want some more?

**Feliks** : [shrugs] I’d rather have something stronger, if we have it.

**Tolys** : We are guests of the richest man in the Commonwealth, and you think he just has mead? I’ll make a run for the kitchen downstairs. How about Krupnikas?

**Feliks** :  _ Ugh _ . Don’t butcher words like that, it’s so  _ vernacular _ . So coarse. Yes, Krupnik would be fine.

 

[The words come out harsher than he intended, but he tries not to mind the hurt in his husband’s eyes too much. It will pass, he will forgive– he has never met a more forgiving person in his life, after all. 

**Tolys’** back stands tall before him, and a hint of jealousy stings under his chin.

Why does he have to be so lucky, with his...  _ commoner  _ built? Hands made for harvest and shoulders to plow fields. There’s something slick and enticing about his silhouette, though, he’s bones and skin and freckles, but he’s tall, and his long legs, and– why is it that they’re both common-born, born in the same body and,  _ ah _ , circumstances, with breasts and all the rest; but he’s stuck in a short, lumpy vessel? The  _ womanly  _ shape of it is unbearable to look at.    
No one would guess that Tolys is anything but a scrawny, skinny young man, as any other man that walks on Earth– he wouldn’t have guessed himself before he had heard him speak, and even then it had just been a guess, and even when it came to that, he had gotten much better–– much better than  _ him,  _ even–

_ It won’t matter once we die _ , he tells himself, but turns out it’s not much of a reassurance when you’ve lived for hundred of years, and are entirely unsure of when and  _ if  _ you will be allowed to even die. 

 

_ Rome has died, though _ , he had read that much in his history books–– his thoughts are immediately interrupted by the clink of glass on glass.

_ Sweet relief _ ! Much needed Krupnik to forget about the shadow of death, even if just for a moment. The feeling burns and soothes his throat, melts the tension away.]

 

**Feliks** : Thank you, Liet.

**Tolys** : It’s no problem. [He does not sound entirely convinced of that, though.] I was thinking about what you said, Feliks.

 

[The way that Tolys’ finger circles the rim of his glass makes Feliks’ face flush.]

 

**Feliks** _ : (Ugh, the liquor is getting to my head.)  _ You care to explain?

**Tolys** : If I am allowed to speak– if m’Lord Polska cares about the coarse speech of a peasant… [ **Feliks** frowns;] ah, don’t make that face, I’m just joking. 

Ah, well, on the day of my coming of age… on the summer solstice I mean, when the high priest decided I _finally_ looked old enough to come of age… he told me something that I could never forget, even after hundreds of years. He said that the name I chose would be my name, and no other; that in the eyes of the Gods I was now Tolvydas. So to be fair, man or woman, or monster, or godless heathen, it doesn’t matter much what others think of me. I know what opinion matters the most, and it's my own.

**Feliks** : Would be nice, if it were true. Too bad that all people in the world will speak louder than one: and there’s only one God, and no such thing as a "summer solstice fest". Or like, a second baptism, where I could just pick my own name.

**Tolys** : Maybe, but wasn’t that what happened? There was no second baptism, not officially, but I’ve never known you as anything other than Feliks.

**Feliks** : And thank God for that.

**Tolys** : So in the eyes of your husband, if not the Gods, you are a man.

 

_ [My husband _ , Feliks echoes in his mind.  _ It sounded much better in Tolys’ voice.] _

 

**Feliks** : The same goes for you, you know. Even now that you’ve left heathenry behind, you are a man in the eyes of… um… your  _ husband _ .

 

[It doesn’t sound so bad in his own voice either, after all.]

 

**Tolys** : I do know.

 

[Lithuania’s smile is warm, a much needed burst of sunlight in a dim and rainy day. As much as he knows that his old Gods are fake, Tolys is the child of the sun himself. Sun-kissed, sun-scented, bright and mellow as a lazy day of June— his eyes blooming,  _ ah, it’s the alcohol speaking _ , and Feliks is waxing poetic again.]

 

**Feliks** : Liet, do you ever feel like life is a long, intricate play?

**Tolys** : [furrows his brows.] I’m afraid I’m not too fond of plays.

**Feliks** : That’s just because you’re boring, uncultured, [scoffs at him with a vague gesture] and you would rather, I don’t know, roam in the wilderness or something.

**Tolys** : There’s absolutely nothing wrong with intimately knowing nature…

**Feliks** : ... says the wild man wearing leaves and sticks. Got you. I’ll call you when I’m in the mood to have some mushrooms for supper. But what I mean is like, sometimes I feel like I’m just playing a role in a comedy — a masquerade, a farce, like one of those girls in disguise as a youth. But if my disguise were to be found out, I would not have a happy ending. I would be stripped of  _ me _ , because there's no one else underneath, no smart lady ready to come out and save the day. It’s not a simple disguise, a mean to an end or an escape— the mean and the end is me, the end is now, it’s something I cannot escape… and yet, my personhood, my _manhood_ -ah, that sounds so weird when I say it out loud, doesn't it?- it is entirely conditional, isn’t it? Only as long as I put up the effort. It’s only as deep as the fabric goes, and my flesh is my worst enemy, not man in their eyes, not woman in my own, a nobody… I’m sorry, um, I’m not making any sense. Care to pour me some more?

**Tolys** : I think you’ve had enough of drinking tonight, to be honest.

**Feliks** : Mmh. [he reclines into his seat with a heavy sigh.] I told you. No fun.

**Tolys** : Maybe you’re right. [ **Feliks** smirks.] I mean, not about me being not fun— about the disguise thing. It does feel like it sometimes...

**Feliks** : ... I can sense a  _ but _ there.”

**Tolys** : You aren’t wrong.

**Feliks** : Let’s hear from your wisdom, then?

**Tolys** : Very well.  _ But _ , if you tried to be what you aren’t— a woman, if you decided that giving up is easier, would that not be the _disguise_? A mean to an end, and nothing more.

It would be untrue, and why would you want that? I see it this way: I took my own fate, and did what I wanted, instead of claiming defeat before I could even try. That was my end: in a way, it’s a quest more than a disguise, and what I won was  _ me-  _ myself- my name. Doesn’t it sound like it?

**Feliks** : [with a shy, half-smile] I suppose. Thank you, wise wild-man. I wish more people had your sensibility.

**Tolys** : Trust me, do I share the same wish. Besides, it’s more than a disguise of mere clothes, and nothing more. Not to be crude, but I’ve seen you nude, up close and personal, and you’re still Feliks - a man - my husband to me. 

 

[ **Feliks** gulps—  _ oh, no. _ If he says “my husband” once again, with that voice of his, the sun of summer—  _ say it once again, and… _

**Feliks** breaks into a fit of giggles, his face bright red.] 

 

**Tolys** : What’s happening?

**Feliks** : Mm, just the liquor— I guess it was, like, too strong?

**Tolys** : No, what’s so funny?

 

[He ponders carefully whether to respond.]

 

**Feliks** : Just… when you say,  _ my husband _ . I really like it.

 

[Red blush sparks on Tolys’ face as well, carving pink space in a field of freckles. 

_ Damn, he’s cute _ .]

 

**Tolys** : I’m, um… I mean, what else am I supposed to call you?

 

[ **Feliks** kicks him in the knee- but gently - a smile runs across his face.]

 

**Feliks** : Lord Polska, of course. Your Lord Liege.

**Tolys** : Should I kneel before you?

**Feliks** : Oh no— why should you kneel?  _ Know’st thou not who I am? Thy friend, thyself, another Liet— _

**Tolys** : [laughing] You are mad.

**Feliks** : Mad with love, very much a thing.

**Tolys** : At least I see you smile, now that you’re mad.

**Feliks** : I smile as I forget my woes, yes. I smile because I’m drunk and dizzy and a fool, and the sight of you in nice clothes for once definitely doesn’t help.

**Tolys** : Should I leave the room, then?

**Feliks** : No, that’s exactly why you should stay with me.

 

[ **Tolys** leans down, and he’s so close, his nose bumps on  **Feliks’** nose: and Feliks can feel his heart stop, then beat in a frenetic crescendo,  _ shit, it’s hot, I’m definitely drunk.  _

 

Lithuania - Tolys -  _ his husband’s _ lips are dry and rough, but the kiss is not: it’s wet and gross and irresistible, he tastes like mead and smells painfully human, almost salt-like—  **Feliks** has never seen the sea, but right now, that’s what he imagines it to smell like. 

 

Suddenly other people’s words seem less important, their eyes averted, the ghosts are silenced by the heartbeat; and death’s presence, the ever-looming sword of Damocles over people’s heads (yes, even people who live hundreds of years) has fallen to the ground, and was not sharp enough to leave a single cut. 

His body is still there: unchanged, unfitting, but  _ true  _ enough— in the eyes of his husband, no matter what, he’s a man. 

In his own eyes— that will be a problem for tomorrow, a daily diatribe between himself and the mirror, an ever-repeating tragedy. 

_ Am I a man? What claim do I have to “man”? What is my place among “men”? What if, what if I were born like this, like that, if I weren’t born at all— what if I could shape myself, if only bodies were clay, or marble, or…  _

Right now, a body is a body, a soft and fluid mess of sensations, humours, bones and  _ flesh  _ with all the weaknesses it entails. 

_ Yes _ , he thinks as his husband carries him to the bed, with his lovely shoulders and hands made for lingering touches,  _ this will be a problem for tomorrow _ .

 

The curtains around the bed close, wine-red brocade and heavy; the flame dies on last candle in the room, and the only light left is that of the silvery full moon.]

**Author's Note:**

> Dear readers, thank you for being so patient with me and my... weird... stuff.   
> Half across writing this I realized: this would make for a bad play, maybe! But tell you what, it's a decent enough fanfiction, so scratch that. It's not actually intended for acting, just for personal reading. (Shout out to Seneca for that one idea.)  
> So, this is a little strange I realize: why a play? I guess I wanted to empasize the inescapable presence of performance in our life, and I figured this would be a good way. Especially since we are talking about how (gendered) performance relates to (but does not constitute) identity, and while the focus is on transgender themes, this could be about any of us- any struggle with our sense of self.   
> Do you ever feel like life is a big, chaotic play?  
> I wanted to play with this concept in the fic.   
> A big inspiration to this was Five Finger Exercise, by Peter Shaffer. And, about the title, a "Kammerspiel" is a peculiar type of play or film (super popular in 20s Germany) that is set in a room, and focuses more on the characters and on intimate scenes. (Yes, yes, thank you history of cinema class for giving me a good title for this.)  
> About my driving motivation to touch these subjects: it has been pointed out to me that too often my writing, while approaching "angst" from a trans narrator's perspective, is rarely about transphobia and transgender struggles by themselves, though I've written about it in the past- check out one of my first fics Summer Wine, about identity, the first chapter of the HWD Female Characters Event is about Hungary dealing with misgendering and adjusting to life as a trans woman- Austria Felix is not really *about* being trans but I feel like it's a big part of it.  
> I think the reason for that is that I want to show that a transgender person, and by extension a trans character can have more to their life than pain and suffering; and even that, it's not always because of transphobia. We suffer heartbreak and loneliness and existential dread just as much as any cis person. But our life is also one of small joys to be found in things that to cis people would not even ring as relevant-- and anxieties that a lot of cis people don't really know about, at least not intimately.   
> So yeah, about that. I guess my point here was to show that yes, indeed, transphobia is a devastating force in a trans person's life. But transphobia is not just blatant bigotry and misgendering that comes from other people: too often the blade that cuts the deepest into us is the one we're holding. Transphobia pervades our perception of ourselves, it makes our sense of identity shaky at times. It's holding doubt above truth- skepticism above what you know to be your reality.   
> If even just one cis person has read this, and feels like they learned anything new at all, I will be very happy with it. It means I have reached my goal. :)  
> Thank you for reading this- the fic, and this long-ass author's note. Feedback is very much appreciated, if you wish to discuss anything with me I always reply to comments on my fics.


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